


Tender Offerings

by StardewTales



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Self-Indulgent, Touch-Starved, anyways i'm starved for muriel content so i decided to feed myself, ao3 won't let me tag my appreciation for consent the way i want to this is censorship, hints of past apprentice/asra because i love suffering, muriel gets the love and consideration that he DESERVES, so many of them honestly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 00:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18377018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StardewTales/pseuds/StardewTales
Summary: "Our capacity for love increases with each person we cross paths with throughout our lives and with each moment we spend with those people. But too often we neglect that part of ourselves in favor of others, and by the time we realize just how important it is, we find ourselves with fewer folks around to practice with." - 30 under 30 media luminary and your babiest brother Griffin McElroybasically i wanted to press some loving muriel juice but i am unable to write a relationship without establishing its context so I went overboard because it's my brand, enjoy x





	1. Fool's Gold

**Author's Note:**

> listen,,,,,, you know who you are,,, if you read this this is your fault

The morning after Elora heals Muriel, she wakes up to the scent of myrrh floating in haze around her pillow. She slept with the pouch he gave her on her bedside table; she doesn’t want to forget him again, not after his gift made it implicitly clear he’d rather not have to introduce himself all over again every time.

She also left it there for herself. For one, she likes the scent. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to smell it again without remembering the warmth of his hut. Mostly, though, she wants to be able to recognize him in a crowd, if he’s there. She’s forgotten too much already; she’s not going to forget him.

Still in a daze from her slumber, she reaches over and grabs the little pouch. Its canvas is rough and grey from wear. The string that ties it at the top is almost splintery. She considers making a new pouch, softer and cleaner, to transfer the myrrh, but doesn’t entertain the idea for long. She likes that it is rugged and rough around the edges.  _ Like him _ , she thinks.

She only met him yesterday, and yet the scent of myrrh is the most familiar thing in her bedroom. She still cannot quite believe the luxury of the palace, how starkly it contrasts her closet of a room at the shop. She thinks back of Muriel’s hut, and wonders how two such places can exist so close by.

She sets the pouch back down and reaches for her deck of cards instead. She sits up on the bed, shuffles it. She has no clue what to do next if she is to do what the Countess has asked of her, so she asks the cards. She doesn’t bother doing a whole spread, simply cuts the deck in two where she can feel in her fingers a card is calling out to her. She flips it, revealing the Hermit, upright. She almost chuckles at the card, at how clear its meaning is.

The Hermit stands alone, gathering wisdom. She remembers how Muriel clearly knew more about the Count’s death than he was willing to let on. As far as she knows, he is her best starting point, the question not being if he  _ can _ help her, but if he  _ will _ .

* * *

 

Elora shudders as she walks through the woods. She follows the path as best she can, her eyes darting between the trees to locate the origin of every crack of a branch, of every chirp of a bird. For the past three years, she has kept mostly to the city. She knows the marketplace well, could tell anyone who asked which vendor can be found where on the docks. The forest, however, has always intimidated her. With what she saw yesterday, she begins to think her discomfort is justified. When a flock of birds suddenly flies up with a cacophony of caws, she instinctively grips the pouch of myrrh she has hung around her neck like a talisman.

She walks in the woods for who knows how long before she admits to herself that she is lost. Dread settles in the pit of her stomach. Not only does she not know which way Muriel’s hut is, she also has no idea how to escape the barricade of trees that surrounds her. She starts to rifle through her bag.

From it she fishes out Asra’s deck. She’d almost left it behind at the palace. Now, needing direction more literally than ever, it seems like her only hope. She sits on the ground and fishes out three cards she lays in a straight line; the Fool, reversed, the Hermit, upright (again), and the World, upright. She frowns when she sees them, three major arcanas.

The first card only tells her what she already knows, that she set out someplace unfamiliar and that she is lost. The last one is obviously the solution to the puzzle, the place she needs to be. It’s the middle one that boggles her, the Hermit, drawn for the second time that day and it isn’t even noon yet. She stares at the cards, trying hard to make sense of them together. She is so focused, in fact, that she does not hear the wolf strut silently towards her, only notices it when it starts sniffing at her bag.

She shrieks, startled and scared, before she recognizes the animal. “Inanna?” she asks, squinting at the wolf.

“What are you doing here?” a deep, frustrated voice asks from down the path, and Muriel emerges from the shadows. “These woods are not safe for wanderers.”

She glances up at him, sheepish. He towers over her, even from a distance, from her being sat still. “I, uh, I was trying to find you, actually,” she replies, reddening from embarrassment, “Muriel.”

She is very aware of how clueless she must look, sat on a dirt path in the middle of the woods and staring at some cards. He, however, barely seems to notice it. His face is struck with shock.

“To find… me?” he repeats, inching away. “How?”

She lifts the canvas pouch from where it rests on her chest. “I haven’t forgotten you yet, if that’s what you’re asking,” she cautiously explains. She hopes he doesn’t regret letting her remember.

He scowls briefly, but doesn’t walk away. “If you remember, what are you doing here on your own after what happened?” he asks, accusing. “You are not safe here.”

“I know,” she concedes, putting away the cards and getting up, wiping her hands on her dress. “But the Countess, she’s asked me to track down Doctor Dev- Julian,” she corrects herself, “because she thinks he killed the count. But yesterday you said he couldn’t have. I just want to ask you a few questions about what happened to Lucio,” she continues, and he shudders at the name.

“Not here,” he interrupts her. “Don’t say his name. Follow me,” he instructs, and without a second glance, he heads down a path she hadn’t even seen.

She trails after him, looking around at her surroundings apprehensively. Soon enough, they are back in the protected area around his hut.

“Go this way,” he motions to a path a little ways down. “It will lead you back to the city.”

She frowns. “But I haven’t-“

“That is a path you should not go down,” he interrupts her again. “Tell the Countess you cannot find him. Some things should be left as they are.”

She stares him down, unnerved. He is as stoic as ever. She has a feeling he will not give her anything no matter how much she asks. She sighs as she accepts this, closes her eyes as she does so to let go of the frustration.

“Fine,” she nods, reopening her eyes. “How are your wounds?”

He recoils at the question, shifting from imposing to defensive. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I want to know if you’re doing better.”

“You healed me yesterday,” he states as though it was an answer.

“I closed the wound, I didn’t make it vanish,” she replies, knowing he knows this too. “Is it still tender?”

He nearly pouts. “I am fine. You can go.”

She almost sighs at how difficult he is, but instead makes sure her voice matches how much she really does care. “I brought a balm,” she says, fishing out a small jar from her bag. “It will heal it faster and make the scar smaller than it would be.”

He simply stares at her, eyes shifting between her and the jar in her hand. Inanna seems to decide she is bored and walks away to lie down by the door of the hut. Elora unscrews the lid and scoops out a dollop of the balm with her finger to smear it on her own forearm.

“See?” she asks, making sure to hold his gaze. “Nothing to be afraid of. I just want to help you.”

He huffs, clearly not believing her. Still, he eyes the balm tentatively. “I’ll waste it,” he says, less decisive than before.

“I can apply it for you,” she suggests with a gentle smile. “I’d be quick.”

He ponders her words and she watches him. She is shocked when he nods to accept. “Inside,” he mumbles, and heads for the hut.

Inanna gets up and follows him in. She does, too, careful not to do anything that might change his mind. He sits on a bench, not looking at her as she settles beside him, cautious to leave him enough space.

“Do you mind, uh...,” she says, pointing to where his cloak covers his side and thus, the wound. “It’d be easier if you took it off, but I can probably manage if you just get it out of the way.”

He freezes slightly at her request, but ends up pushing back the cloak over his shoulder, exposing the ghost of the wound, pink and slightly swollen. She examines it for a second, gaging how much balm she will need. As she does so, she rubs her hands together to make them warmer. She is aware he is watching her every movement like a deer about to jump.

She scoops out a generous amount of the balm. “I’m going to apply it now,” she warns him, voice soft. “It’ll be cold at first, but it shouldn’t sting unless it’s infected.”

He simply nods, following her hand with his eyes as she reaches out to smear the clear mixture on his side, just below his ribcage. She feels him wince when her fingers first brush against him, and she pulls them away, looking at him for direction.

“Keep going,” he huffs and looks away, and she realizes he is holding his breath. With very calculated motions, she resumes. As she slowly applies the balm, she can feel the warmth of his skin on her fingers. In fact, his whole body seems to radiate heat, which she can feel despite sitting as far away as she can while still being able to reach.

“There you go,” she announces with an encouraging smile, “All done. I’ll leave the rest with you, in case you need it again. I can bring you more if you run out, too.”

She has to fight hard against her instincts to resist touching his arm in an attempt to comfort him. She knows it would have the opposite reaction, but she remains at a loss as to what she can do instead. Hesitantly, he brings himself to look down at where his skin is now slick and coated with the balm.

“Thank you,” he says, and only then does he release his breath.

She watches his collar move around his neck as he does. The chain hanging from it rattles lightly. She wonders why he wears it, but knows better than to ask.

“I should go now,” she gets up and smooths her dress. Inanna trots to her feet, and she bends down to scratch her head.

“She likes you,” Muriel notes, astonished.

“Is that weird?”

“Not… usual,” he replies.

Elora can’t help but feel a pang of pride. She’s not even particularly good with animals, usually, Faust being the only notable exception. But she likes Inanna and her jet black fur, and so she is glad she seems to like her back.

“When you see Asra...,” he starts, and almost doesn’t finish the thought, but she nods to get him to say the rest, “Tell him I want to see him. I need to replace some of the charms.”

“I will,” she nods. “If he doesn’t come back soon enough, though, I’d be happy to help. I’m not as good as him, I know, but I can probably manage a quick fix.”

He frowns yet again. “You have great powers,” he says, sending chills down her spine. She can’t help but think the reason why he says that might have to do with the past wiped from her memory.

“Okay,” she can only reply. “Well, I’ll be staying at the Palace for some time, but I’ll go to the shop every now and then still. Leave something for me there if you need anything,” she instructs, knowing it’s unlikely he will.

He nods solemnly. Feeling like she won’t be able to get him to say much more today, she heads for the door, resolved. It is heavier than it seems, and she struggles to get it open. Before she knows it, Muriel is behind her, and intimidated by the sheer size of him she moves out of the way. He pulls the door open as if it’s lights as a feather.

“Goodbye,” she bids him with with a slight smile. “Thanks for finding me, earlier.”

“Mmh,” he groans.

He doesn’t shut the door right away, only does once she is on the path towards the city. As she walks away, she clutches the pouch of myrrh hanging from her neck as she feels the fog of forgetfulness try and seep its way into her mind.


	2. It's Just My Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which I make a plea for romances with awkward beginnings but not in a cute quirky kind of way, in a "we don't know each other" kind of way

Elora sees Muriel again a few days later at the Market. She hasn’t had any luck in finding Julian so far and so she’s back where she last saw him. She is surprised when she sees Muriel buy some eels down where the docks meet the marketplace. She watches him walk away from the stall, sees the vendor’s confusion when he sees the empty space in his display moments later. She bites her lip as she wonders if she should go after him. The pouch of myrrh hangs heavy around her neck.

As he’s about to leave her line of sight, she darts forward, expertly slipping through the crowd. She freezes momentarily when she wonders how to grab his attention. Best not to touch him, she resolves. She also has a feeling he wouldn’t like her screaming his name, it would draw too much attention. Instead, she trails behind him, indecisive, until he slips into an empty alleyway.

“Muriel,” she calls out, almost jogging, “Wait!”

He turns around, perplexed. “You,” he says. “How have you not forgotten me yet?” he scowls, face full of shadows from the hood on his head.

“I don’t want to,” she honestly answers. It’s as though the myrrh she carries smells stronger when he is nearby.

He takes a moment to consider her answer, shifts uneasily. “What do you want?”

“I…” she trails off, and she realizes there’s no real reason why she made so much effort to accost him. “I saw you and thought I’d say hi,” she completes. He just stares at her. “Did the balm help?” she asks.

“Yes.” He pauses. “I used it all.”

“Oh,” she raises her eyebrows. “That’s good then. That’s great. Do you want more? I keep plenty ready at the shop,” she offers.

He shifts again. “Maybe. In case I need it again.”

She grins at him. He really must’ve liked it if he didn’t brush her offer off.

“Come on then,” she gestures at him to follow her.

As he walks behind her, she can see how large the shadow he casts on the ground is. It engulfs part of hers. They walk in silence, and she can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about. She’s surprised to find someone on the porch when they get to the shop. A tall, lean silhouette, a man’s without any doubt.

“Can I help you?” she calls out from a distance, and she hears the chains Muriel wears rattle as he abruptly halts.

The man turns around, and the sun casts light on his face. Julian. When he recognizes her too, he runs off the porch and darts into the streets. She wants to race after him, but before she can even take a step, Muriel grabs her wrist.

“Let me go, Muriel, I really have to talk to him,” she tugs her arm.

“No,” he answers firmly.

She is stunned. His grip is tight on her wrist as she wiggles it, and she stops herself from wincing. “Let me go,” she repeats, gaze insistent.

“No good will come of it,” he says, his grip still just as tight.

“I said let me go!” she shouts this time, making several people turn their heads towards them. “You’re hurting me,” she pleads, more quietly this time so only he will hear.

He drops her like she just grew sizzling hot. She sees the panic in his eyes as he considers the onlookers, all looking disapprovingly at him. Without another word, he darts off in the opposite direction, and within seconds he’s out of sight and out of mind for all the people on the street. Except for her. Now, she’s got two men on the loose she should be chasing down, and she knows where neither of them are. With a deeply frustrated sigh, she unlocks the shop for herself.

* * *

Later that day, at the time of the afternoon when the sun has just begun setting and floods everywhere it can reach with a gilded glow, Elora steps out of the shop, having collected everything she needs. She hesitates on the doorstep, having just locked the door, about which way to go. She knows she should head to the palace if she wants to make it there for dinner, but she feels the forest call out to her from where it is hidden by the rows of buildings. She clutches the pouch hanging off her neck the whole way there.

When she reaches the clearing where Muriel’s hut is, not getting lost this time, she sees him feeding chickens she’s never seen before. A branch cracks under her foot, and he turns his head her way swiftly. His face is unreadable, and she stops in her tracks. When he doesn’t tell her to go away, she steps forward.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he grunts at her as he resumes feeding the chickens.

“You left before I could give you the balm. Here, I brought it for you,” she says, taking the bag off her shoulders and reaching in to grab three whole jars of it.

“Why?” He frowns, taking a step back. She can’t help but think he has the body language of a wounded animal.

“Because you seemed to want to have more?” She answers, not understanding the reason for his question.

“But…” he grapples for the words he wants to say, “I hurt you.”

He casts his gaze away from hers, and his face is shadowed with hair.

“I’m fine,” she says, hoping to reassure him, but tucking the hand he grabbed earlier behind her back.

He notices. Only then does he approach her, albeit still like he doesn’t want to get too close.

“I want to see,” he states. The chickens have followed him, grain spilling from the pouch he carries it in, and they peck at his feet, but he hardly notices.

She bites her lip, not wanting to comply. She knows he won’t like the sight of it, but still, hesitantly, she extends her arm. Faint bruises circle her wrist where his fingers pressed too hard. He shuts his eyes when he sees it.

“It looks worse than it feels, I swear,” she tries.

He opens his eyes, but won’t meet hers. He grimaces as he looks at her wrist some more. “You’ve seen what happens when people get too close,” he says, and it feels like an accusation. “You should be afraid of me. You shouldn’t have come back here.”

Her heart breaks in her chest at the way he looks at her. “I’m not,” she gulps. “Afraid of you. I know you were trying to protect me. I’m more upset that you didn’t let me go when I asked you to, honestly.”

His mouth gapes slightly in surprise. “He’s dangerous for you. And reckless. You shouldn’t chase after him.”

“I understand that’s how you feel about it,” she starts, and pauses to take a deep breath. “But it doesn’t mean you get to get to decide for me, just because you think you know better. Nobody does. I have a task to complete, and I’m planning on doing it whether you help me or not, Muriel.”

He flinches, and considers what she’s just told him. He seems a little overwhelmed. “Sorry,” he finally mumbles. “I’m not used to… this,” he gestures vaguely towards her.

“This?” Her brow raises.

She thinks she sees him redden, but isn’t quite sure because of the shadows that dance on his face.

“Asra’s been the only one… for years,” he sighs, and seems frustrated that he doesn’t know how to articulate his thoughts. “And he’s barely around, most times.”

“I see,” she nods solemnly. “So, what you’re saying is that you’re not used to having friends, right?”

This time she knows for certain he his flushed. Her lips quirk up in amusement.

“You’re not…,” he stutters, shifts on his feet, “We’re not…”

“Friends?” She completes. “We could be. I’d like to be friends. It’s why I came up to you at the market. That’s what friends do,” she smiles at him, something playful about it.

He huffs. He is still just as red. She hopes she hasn’t made him uncomfortable. “...Okay. I can… try.”

She beams, and her stomach growls. The sun has set further by now, and she feels hunger settle in. He notices.

“You’re hungry,” he says. It’s not a question.

“I’ll manage,” she laughs softly.

“I’m making eel,” he says, and as he does she catches a whiff of smoke. Her stomach growls once more.

“Are you… inviting me to stay for dinner?”

He turns around and heads for where the smell of charred fish comes from. “If you want. You don’t have to,” he says without looking back at her.

“Yes, okay,” she nods, suddenly nervous. Why is she nervous? “I’ll go, uh, set the table,” she says, and watches him nod silently before walking inside.

The hut is just as cozy as before, but a fire doesn’t burn in the fireplace yet. The light inside is whiter, without the glow of it. Elora sets her bag down by the door and fishes out the balm she brought and the loaf of bread she bought to snack on on her way to the palace. She sets the balms down on a shelf next to the door and heads to the small kitchen area.

By the time Muriel walks in with the eels ready, she has set the table and sliced the bread, which she has put on the table with some butter she found in his pantry. When she sees him take in the table ready, she suddenly hopes he doesn’t mind her going through his things.

He simply huffs, and heads for the kitchen, unreadable once again. She gets out of his way, busying herself with pouring them cups of water. The air feels stiff as they sit down to eat. They don’t speak much; he’s not much of a talker. She does feel his eyes resting heavy on her the whole way through, however. She can’t help a flush at the intensity of it when she catches his gaze.

“What is the palace like?” he asks when his plate is nearly finished.

She’s unsure why he asks, but answers all the same. “Big. Extravagant, like a maze. It’s full of colours and riches, too, unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Mmh,” he nods.

She takes up to studying the hut around them. There is a pile of large pelts in a corner not too far from the fireplace, which she assumes is the bed. On the walls, various practical items hang; a hunting bow, trapping gear.

“Here… isn’t much,” he swallows.

“I like it,” she replies earnestly, still scanning the room. “It’s warm. It’s small, yes, but not… confining. It’s peaceful. I can see why you like living out here on your own. Much quieter than the city. How long have you lived here?”

He is now staring at her almost suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” she shrugs. “It must get lonely after some years.”

“Lonely is fine,” he grunts, getting up and taking his empty plate back to the kitchen.

She doesn’t agree, but doesn’t argue either. “Thank you for dinner,” she says, doing the same as him.

When he reaches for her to hand him her plate, his fingers brush against her hand and he drops the plate to the ground. It shatters completely, the sound deafening in the silence of the hut. Elora can’t help but wince.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes. She doesn’t dare move.

“My fault,” he grumbles. “Stay there.”

He walks over to where a broom hangs on the wall and sweeps the debris away from her feet. The bristles tickle her feet, bare in her sandals, and she shivers.

“Here, let me help,” she reaches for the makeshift dustpan in his hand. The thought of him crouching to use it is almost comical.

She helps him clean up the shattered plate and the rest of the dishes. They work silently, efficiently. By the time they’re done, the sky is aflame with the sunset.

“I should head back to the palace,” she tells him, eyeing the red that reflects under the clouds. “While I can still see where I’m going.”

“You’ll get lost. I’ll go with you,” he says, not leaving her the choice to say no.

“Oh. Thank you.”

Inanna follows them into the forest. Muriel walks ahead of her, and Elora follows closely. She wishes she could walk beside him, but the path is too narrow.

“Does Asra ever read the cards for you?” she asks him, stepping over a large root that bulges out of the ground.

“No.”

“I could read them for you sometime, if you’d like,” she offers.

“I know what my future holds already. I don’t need magic to tell me,” he asserts, and glances back at her briefly.

“You could always be surprised,” she smirks.

They reach a place in the path that is cut up by a small stream. It’s narrow enough for Muriel to step over with ease, but disproportionately steep, and Elora halts to consider how she’ll go about it. She’ll need to jump over it, and while she knows she can, she doesn’t want to slip when she lands and fall into it.

Muriel looks at her look at the water. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to lose my balance when I jump,” she explains. “Hold on, I’ll find a branch or something to help,” she tells him.

He grunts something she can’t hear.

“What?”

“Just… take my hand,” he repeats, extending it hesitantly.

She stares at it, eyes wide from her side of the stream. “You don’t have to you know, I can-”

He grunts again, silencing her. She nods and inhales deeply. Silently, she hopes he won’t drop her like he dropped the plate earlier when their fingers touch. She leaps forward, catching his hand mid-air. When her feet touch the ground, the dirt crumbles under them and gives way, and just like she feared her feet betray her before she can regain her balance. It’s a shock when Muriel reaches his other hand to steady her, and instinctively she grabs hold of his arm. It’s broad, so large under the palm of her hand.

She looks up at him and sees his whole body tremble. As soon as her feet are back on steady ground, she lets go of him. “Sorry,” she says urgently. “Thank you. Are you okay? We can take a moment before we continue.”

He shakes his head no, seemingly shaking the shudder away too. For the first time, his eyes are unguarded when he looks at her. She feels like she’s slipping on unsteady ground all over again, feels the same drop in her stomach. Through the canopy, bright red light filters and seems to colour his whole self the same hue. He is handsome, she realizes, all the shadows stripped from him. The heartbreaking kind, that wouldn’t believe you if you told them so. All the breath has been sucked out of her lungs as she just looks up at him, apprehensively.

“Let’s keep going,” he says, and his voice struggles on the words. “You go ahead.”

She nods, dazed, and follows the path. She feels his presence behind her, tall and wide. He is a barrier between her and the forest. She feels safer than she ever has in this forest.

When they reach the edge of the forest and the palace grounds, they stop and she turns to look at him. He shifts, uneasy from the sight ahead.

“I stop here,” he says.

“I know,” she nods. She wishes she could hug him goodbye, touch him somehow. She’s never realized how much she uses touch to communicate until now. “Thank you for walking me back. It was very…,” she breathes, “sweet of you.”

The light on him is no longer red, but he flushes all the same.

“Stay safe,” he huffs. “Be careful,” he adds, eyes flickering to the palace behind her.


	3. Shrike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *muriel and asra get involved in finding out who killed lucio and saving vesuvia*  
> that's right. the wild boys have become the cops.

Muriel is foraging in the forest when the storm breaks. He curses under his breath; he knew it was coming, but had miscalculated how much time he had left. The rain is violent, violent enough he knows it won’t last. He knows of a cave nearby Asra told showed him some years ago and decides to use it as a shelter until the storm calms.

The last thing he expects when he enters the cave is to find Elora there, looking at the walls of it intently. She jolts in shock when she hears him walk in, but relaxes quickly.

“Muriel!” she exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

“The storm broke out,” he explains. There is something new in her eyes since the last time he’s seen her. She seems more… aware, somehow. “What are you doing in here?”

She sighs. “Asra took me here the other day and it helped me remember some things. I was hoping if I came back I might remember more.”

He frowns, unsure how it all fits together. “How does looking at the walls help?”

She furrows her brow at him, but something then seems to click. “Right, you can’t see it,” she nods. She looks restless; he doesn’t remember ever seeing her so high-strung. She’s being less cautious around him, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. “Can you give me your hand?” she asks, eyes sparkling in the dark. “You’ll see why.”

He hesitates. He remembers the electric shock the last times she’s touched him. It’s why he doesn’t like people touching him, ever, but there’s something resolute in her gaze, and he decides to give in, reluctantly.

She cups his hand in both of hers, shuts her eyes as she does. He closes his too at the contact, a sharp sting wherever her skin presses against his. A scent of something flowery swirls around him. When she lets go of his hand, he opens his eyes again and is stunned at the sight he beholds.

“Wow…” he breathes, eyes wide.

The walls glow around them, covered in shapes that make him think he shouldn’t be able to see this. Shouldn’t be allowed.

“This is…” he begins, trailing off once more.

“Breathtaking, I know,” she nods. Her eyes focus in on the collar at his neck.

He can tell something is tugging at her memory. He feels panic wash over him; the last thing he wants is for her to remember who he really is. What he’s done. He turns his back to her before she asks.

“This isn’t working,” she sighs, defeated. “I’ll be back.”

With that, he watches her walk further into the cave. He wonders what she’s doing, but doesn’t follow her. Well, at first. When it’s been more than a few minutes and she isn’t back yet, he goes looking for her.

He stumbles onto a natural pool, its water the bluest he’s ever seen. He smells the same flowery scent he did earlier when Elora held his hand. That’s when he sees it; the pile of teal and purple cloth by the water. Her dress, or rather the lengths of fabric she wraps around herself to make one. He rushes to the water, not seeing her anywhere above the surface.

He spots the bubbles before he does her. Under the surface, her silvery hair almost glows as she seems to struggle. He starts panicking again, is debating diving into the water when she surfaces, gasping loudly for air. She lets out a cry when she spots him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, unnerved.

“It worked this way the last time,” she explains, still regaining her breath.

When it’s clear she’s fine, his shoulders relax. She swims to the edge, right where he is, and gracefully pulls herself out of the water. She is nimble, and he watches her movements, hypnotized, as she twists her hair to release the water it holds. The length of it is considerable, he notices now that it’s not braided around her head and down her back.

It takes him a second to realize she is only wearing her undergarments. Just like her dress, they look like lengths of fabric she has wrapped around her chest and hips, only more snuggly. They look dark purple, drenched in water, and he looks away quickly when he makes out the shape of her chest under them, feeling an unprecedented amount of heat crawl its way from his neck to the bridge of his nose.

She doesn’t seem to notice how flustered he is, doesn’t seem to care she is dressed in so little clothing. She is now sat on the edge of the water and lets her legs dangle in it. She is staring out into the water, breathing in and out deeply. Muriel finds the rhythm of it soothing.

Finally, she tilts her head and looks up at him. She seems a world away from him.

“The water’s fine, you know,” she smiles softly.

She seems surprised when he kicks off his shoes and sits down beside her, letting his feet drop into the water as well.

“Did it work?” he asks her, cautious to look anywhere but at her.

“No,” she sighs. She bends forward, rests her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. “I can’t remember anything else.”

“Maybe it’s better that way,” he suggests. He can see her studying him intently out of the corner of his eye. “Sometimes, knowing is more painful.”

He turns to her when he feels her reach out towards him. He tenses, but she never does touch him. Instead, her hands hover over him, following the ridges of his scars. In a way, it feels worse, but in another, it’s a relief.

“You probably don’t want to talk about these,” she says, not interrupting the movement of her hand, “but if you ever do, I’d like to hear it.”

He doesn’t know what to respond to that. He doesn’t know how to react to the way she manages to get so close and yet leave him so much space, all the time. Now that he’s looking at her, he notices the pouch tied around her neck, damp.

“You didn’t take it off,” he comments, eyes fixated on it, fixated on how it rises and falls with every breath she takes. He wonders if her heart beats right next to it.

“I never do,” she replies, and this time she does stop her hand.

He doesn’t understand why it suddenly feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the cave. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to forget you, that’s why.” She says it simply, quietly, and he feels nauseous, like his heart leapt into his throat. “Isn’t that why you gave it to me?”

“I guess I didn’t think you’d… wear it,” he mumbles. “It doesn’t exactly look fancy.”

“You think I dress fancy?” she chuckles. She looks down at herself as if to look at her dress, and for the first time seems to remember she’s not wearing it. She blushes when his gaze rests on the exposed skin of her stomach and travels down to where her legs meet the water. He looks away as soon as he snaps out of it. He’s pretty sure she’s the closest he’s ever been to seeing a naked woman.

His cloak slips off his shoulder when he shifts on his seat, exposing a wound from the previous day. Her eyes flit to it immediately.

“Lucio again?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nods. “He’s getting stronger. I don’t know why.”

She shakes her head in response. “Can I…?” she half-asks, her hand now hovering over his shoulder.

He nods again, stiff. He remembers how much her healing quickened the whole process the last time around. She withdraws her shins from the water and folds them under her, kneeling beside him. She’s at face level with him now. He doesn’t remember the last time someone has been.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” she whispers, and places not one but both of her hands on his shoulder, one on the curve and one just below on his chest.

He sucks in his breath but doesn’t tell her to stop. For the first time, he doesn’t want to pull away from her touch outright. For the first time, her fingers aren’t electric, but burning, the kind of white heat he feels when he first steps into hot springs in the winter. Slowly, the initial heat dulls, until it just feels like a hand on his skin. He can feel the magic radiating out of one, but not from the other.

She fans out the fingers of the hand on his chest. “I won’t hurt you,” she repeats and her eyes are green as the forest as they capture his.

Soon enough, her other hand stops radiating the odd warmth of healing. She doesn’t remove it right away. It feels like she’s seeing him, really seeing, in a way no one ever has beside Asra. It feels completely overwhelming, but when she’s about to take her hands off him, he reaches over and rests his own hand over hers. He doesn’t want it to be over yet and doesn’t know how to phrase it, but she seems to understand.

When he lifts his hand off, she begins slowly trailing hers over his skin. He closes his eyes when a new kind of chills run down his spine as one hand glides across his chest to the other shoulder. Her hands are soft and smooth on his skin, so light, as though she’s smearing honey on him.

She moves from her kneeling position and swiftly straddles him, except she’s hovering, not actually touching him anywhere other than where her hands are now tracing slow circles on his shoulders.

“Breathe,” she whispers.

He exhales shakily. His hands are unsteady when he opens his eyes again and moves them to her waist. Her breath catches when he grips her there. She feels even more fragile than she looks. She doesn’t change anything to what she’s doing, letting him set the pace, and he breathes once more in relief.

Slowly, he lowers her so she is sat on his thighs, her knees sliding up on either side of him as he does. He hasn’t touched someone, hasn’t been touched so much since before he was scared and helpless, fending for himself on the docks. He feels just as vulnerable now as he did then, but notices he’s no longer scared she’ll hurt him. She would’ve by now if she was going to.

She finishes pushing his cloak off of him, and now his torso is bare save for his collar. Its chain rests heavy against his sternum, and he feels it press into his skin when she leans in to embrace him, her head resting where his neck and shoulder meet. Hesitantly, he wraps his own arms around her. He finds he doesn’t just tolerate touching her now, he wants to. Bad. He lets his hand crawl up her back, and he willingly absorbs her shudder when he does.

One of her hands ventures up the back of his neck, skipping over the collar and into his hair. Her fingers gently comb through his hair against his scalp, and the noise that escapes him is at the crossroads of a moan and a whimper. He freezes. She keeps doing everything she’s already doing, seemingly unfazed. He holds her just a little tighter, very careful not to overdo it. He doesn’t want to bruise her again, not ever again.

When her lips ghost over his collarbone, his heart skips a beat as he wonders if she’s expecting more. If he’s ready for more, if he wants more. He wonders what more entails, exactly, in this situation. He has no reason to fret, he discovers, when it turns out she was just adjusting the angle of her head.

“Is this okay?” she whispers, and he feels the warmth of the words as they escape her mouth. “You’re trembling.”

He hadn’t noticed, but he is. “Yes,” he breathes, “Okay. ‘S Fine.”

He says that, but doesn’t stop trembling. Soon, she pulls away from him, and it feels like she is pulling out all of his warmth as she does.

“I think this might be enough for now,” she says.

She leans forward and presses a chaste kiss on his forehead; it feels more familiar than intimate. With that, she moves off of him and is quickly back on her feet. She isn’t dry yet, but she moves to put her dress back on regardless. He stays sat there, dumbfounded by the whole thing. Now that it’s over, he isn’t even sure it happened.

“I think the storm has passed,” she tells him. “Goodbye, Muriel. Be more careful out there.”

Before he can reply anything, she walks away, out of sight. He stares at the natural pool before him as he tries to process what just happened. How it was able to happen; how he let it. Mostly, he wonders if this is what friends do, friends who’ve had normal lives. He feels queasy at the thought of her touching all her friends like she just touched him.


	4. Wicked Man's Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> muriel: *has one pint of ale at the rowdy raven*  
> muriel: *slams fist on the table*  
> asra: oh god not again  
> muriel: I THINK DOGS SHOULD BE ABLE TO VOTE

The next time he’s alone with her is only days later. Granted, he has seen her somewhat frequently since, but only because he’s been dragged into the events transpiring at the palace. All those times, she smiled at him the same as before, everything the same as before. He is both grateful and frustrated that she hasn’t really touched him once when others had been around.

That night, however, she shows up on his doorstep at dusk, well after he’s had dinner. She looks the same as always, except there’s a small instrument strapped to her back and a restlessness in her eyes.

“Elora,” he says when he sees her there after opening the door.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

He nods and moves out of the way. He hadn’t expected company; his cloak is in a pile at the foot of his bed.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concerned.

She’s come to a stop in the middle of the hut, like she doesn’t know what to do next. “Yes. No. I-” she trips over her words as she fidgets with the fabric of her dress, “I’m scared. Of everything. I hardly know what’s what anymore.”

“So you came here?” he asks, brow furrowing.

“The palace, it… I don’t feel safe there. Or at the shop, not anymore. Do you mind if I,” she says, but catches herself before she finishes her thought. “Nevermind. It’s silly. I’ll go, sorry I bothered you.”

He blocks the way to the door as she attempts to head back for it. “The woods are not safe past sundown,” he asserts, searching her face.

She exhales, nearly shaking. “Do you mind if I spend the night here?” she asks. “I won’t bother you, I promise.”

He nods. “You’re safe here.”

She sighs, relieved.

“What’s this?” he asks, moving to help her shed the instrument she’s carrying.

“Oh, that’s my lyra,” she answers. “It helps me collect my thoughts. I brought it from the palace to the shop, but I forgot to leave it behind when I left.”

He looks at the instrument, pear-shaped with strings on which the light of the fireplace bounces off. He wonders what it sounds like.

“You can play it here,” he suggests.

She bites her lip, considering. “You won’t mind?”

He shakes his head no and heads to sit down by the fireplace, where he was carving something out of a piece of wood. He doesn’t know what it’ll be yet. Inanna is still lying there, unbothered by Elora’s arrival.

Muriel watches her as she walks over, sitting down on a pile of pillows. He notices she now wears the myrrh pendant under her dress, where it rests against her skin. Her fingers start brushing the strings lightly, and soon enough she is plucking them, playing a song he thinks he might’ve forgotten. The melody is slow and sorrowful. It sounds like the moon, he thinks.

He picks up his knife and piece of wood, resuming the carving as she keeps playing. She goes from one song to another seamlessly; some he recognizes, some he doesn’t. Paired with the crackle of the fire, her playing feels ethereal.

When she sets the lyra aside, he isn’t sure how much time has passed.

“You play really well,” he tells her. A shard of wood flies from the stick.

“Thanks,” she smiles. “Playing it is the only thing I remember from before.” She pauses, looking at him intently. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mmh,” he replies, eyes on his handiwork.

“Did you know me? Before?” she asks, taking him by surprise.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to answer that,” he skirts the question.

“So you did, then,” she decides.

“I knew of you,” he corrects her, hoping it’ll throw her off the scent. Asra has warned him not to overwhelm her with recollection. Besides, he doesn’t want to think about why he used not to like her, before. Back when she’d arrived in Vesuvia and swept up Asra like a leaf in the blowing wind. He doesn’t want to think about how Asra has only just stopped coming to him to lament how much it hurts, that he can’t hold her like he used to. He is aware she knows she knew Asra before by now, but she doesn’t know how they were yet. He doesn’t plan on being the one to tell her.

“Was I ever… unkind? To you?” she asks him. She looks so apprehensive he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Why would you think that?” he asks her, genuinely puzzled.

She searches his face for clues he won’t reveal. “You’re scared of me. Or at least, you don’t trust me.”

He frowns. Somehow, the assertion leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “I haven’t trusted anyone in a long time. But you, you… you don’t bother me anymore, I don’t think.”

She smiles shyly at him, blushing. Or is it just from the fire? He wonders how her face would morph if he told her just how many times he’s yearned for her touch since the cave. He still isn’t quite certain if he misses it because he’s starved for the touch of a friend, or if it’s about her alone.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve missed you,” she tells him, so far away where she is sat two feet further. There’s a kindness in her words he didn’t think anyone would ever direct his way.

“You saw me yesterday,” he huffs, flustered.

“I know, I mean,” she pauses, considers what she will say, “I missed being around you like this,” she gestures vaguely.  _ Alone _ , the word hangs heavy in the air despite being unsaid.

He wishes she were closer. “I see,” he nods.

“I hope I didn’t push you too far, back in the cave,” she continues, anxious. “You looked like you needed comforting, and it’s the only way I know how.”

She’d wanted to comfort him? He hadn’t understood that’s what had been happening, too swept up in the moment. Now, he doesn’t know how to explain to her that it had been unexpected, and intense, and  _ right _ .

“You look like you’ve been through so much,” she bites her lip, touching her cheek where he has a scar on his, “I understand why you wouldn’t like people touching you.”

It takes a second, but he manages to say it. “You’re not people.”

Her eyebrows shoot up at his reply. He averts his eyes, wishing he’d said it better. To cover up his embarrassment, he reaches out to Inanna and runs his fingers through the fur on her back. Her eyes close and her ears flatten down.

Silently, Elora scoots over closer to Inanna too. Closer to him, as well. She starts petting the wolf too, scratching gently between her hears. Inanna groans in satisfaction, and Elora smiles tenderly. He feels as though a star has exploded deep in the confines of his chest.

She looks at him pensively. “Can I ask you another question?”

He winces, fearing he knows what she will ask. He doesn’t tell her no.

“Your scars… how did you get them?”

He presses his eyes shut.  _ You wouldn’t feel safe if you knew _ , he thinks. “Growing up alone was rough,” he answers as vaguely as possible. “Landed me in situations where I didn’t have much of a choice. I don’t like going back there.”

She nods, catching the hint. “I understand,” she says, and somehow it feels like she does.

Slowly, her hand slides down Inanna’s neck and she starts scratching her back too, her hand dangerously close to his, but she keeps it in one spot. His heart swells when he realizes she is hinting she wants to touch him again, but won’t do it unless he makes the move. A minute passes before he inches his hand towards hers, brushing it so faintly it could’ve been a mistake. The electric jolt hasn’t returned; the feel was nothing short of thrilling.

Emboldened, he brings his hand to rest over hers where she is still scratching Inanna. She laughs softly when her whole hand disappears under his. She turns her head to look at him, eyes sparkling. His breath is short, catches when she reaches for his cheek with her other hand. He cups the hand he was covering with his, holds it like a lifeline, and Inanna, no longer being pet, whines before getting up and lazily walking away to settle somewhere in the kitchen.

Elora’s face is serious as her thumb brushes down the length of his scar. He winces, wishing so forcefully he wasn’t so worse for wear. He doesn’t understand why anyone would look at him the way she does, especially her. Her skin is smooth and perfect, dewy with youth whereas his is weathered, emblazoned with reminders of a past that would likely horrify her.

“Hey,” she whispers, still brushing his cheek with her thumb. “Stay with me.”

She is close enough now that he can tell how she smells like sage and incense. He understands too well now why Asra stopped seeing him as much and started spending all his time with her, even before they’d been in love. As he looks into her eyes, he forgets there is a world outside of the hut.

She leans towards him slowly, steadying herself with his hand that holds hers, and presses a feather-light kiss on the scar she had just been stroking. Briefly, he feels her eyelash flutter against his cheek. He feels a blazing heat in his entire body, and yet he is frozen in place.

She retreats barely an inch.”Is this okay?” she breathes.

“I,” his voice strangles, “Yes.”

She smiles as she kisses the scar on his eyebrow. He is dizzy, holds onto her hand tighter because he is sure he might topple over if he doesn’t. She moves down next, all the way to the shoulder she healed back in the cave, and kisses it too, this time pressing a bit more. Next thing he knows, her forehead is pressed against his, her nose nestled right beside his own.

“Is this okay?” she asks again, her voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear it.

He answers by brushing his lips against hers, just barely. She sighs when he does, and only then does he consider that she might’ve missed his touch just like he did hers. The thought lights a fire in his veins, makes him surge forward with a visceral need to feel her lips pressed against his.

She gasps into the kiss, but reciprocates it just as needily. Her arms fly to wrap themselves around his neck, and his latch onto her waist as he pulls her to him. She is warm against him from having sat by the fire for so long. The fabric of her dress is soft as it rubs against his chest.

He is the one who breaks the kiss, reluctantly so, panting. She catches her breath too as she studies him. She looks about to say something, but he doesn’t let her. He kisses her again, softer this time, and pulls away once more when he feels he’ll start trembling like in the cave again. Her eyes are lidded as she looks at him through her eyelashes. They look at each other like they can’t find the words to describe how the other makes them feel. She splays her hands on his chest and puts a bit of distance between them.

“Don’t let me forget you,” she pleas softly.

He wants to kiss her again but isn’t sure he can take it. “Okay,” he replies shakily. “I won’t.”

She smiles with her eyes. “It’s late,” she notes, seeing the darkness outside through the window. “We should get some rest.”

He nods, even though he has no idea how he’ll fall asleep with her around.

“Where do you want me to sleep?” she asks, looking around. “I don’t mind staying here by the fire.”

He shakes his head; it won’t do. “In my bed,” he tells her.

“I’m not gonna take your bed from-“

“With me,” he adds, interrupting her. Her mouth hangs open in the shape of an ‘o’.

“Are you sure?” she asks. She’s biting back a grin.

“Yes,” he says, and gets up.

He holds out his hand for her to help her get up too. Now that touching her feels the way it does, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it.

They change out of their day clothes at a pace of their own. She has brought a tunic, nearly translucent and through which he can see her undergarments, the curve of her body. He saw it all before in the cave, but somehow he’s even more flustered now.

She slips under his covers made of fur with him after having blown out the last candles. Sensing her hesitation, he reaches over to cup her face with shaky fingers. She smiles as she grabs his wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it. He drapes his arm over her, pulling her to him. He likes how she nestles against him, back to his chest and holding on to his arm.

“Goodnight, Muriel,” she whispers.

She falls asleep long before he does. He hadn’t expected to kiss her today. He hadn’t even known he wanted to until it happened. Now, as he tries to match his breathing to hers in the dead of night, it’s all he can think about.


	5. Various Storms & Saints

When she stirs awake, the smell of myrrh doesn’t allow her to question where she is. Instead, the first thing she notices is Muriel’s absence by her side. She’d fallen asleep looking forward to waking up in his arms, to basking in his warmth. Now, the bed is cold enough to indicate he’s been out of it for more than a little while.

When she sits up, she can’t see him anywhere in the hut. In fact, even Inanna is absent. She can’t help the sinking feeling in her chest at the unexpected loneliness. Then she hears it, the loud crack of wood splitting just outside the hut.

She scurries out of bed and rushes out, only to see Muriel bring down an axe on a log of wood. The force of the sound makes birds fly out of the trees all around the clearing. He gathers the split wood and turns around, only to freeze when he sees her standing there.

“Good morning,” she smiles hesitantly.

“You’re awake,” he simply states in return. He’s hard to read as ever, frustratingly so.

They just stand there, silently gaging each other. She wants nothing more than to walk over to him and kiss his stubbly cheek, but restrains herself. He looks uncomfortable as the day she first turned up to his hut. The rush of affection she feels and his distance are hard to reconcile, yet she knows better than to push him.

“I have to head back to the palace,” she ends up saying, stifling a sigh. “I’ll just get dressed and be out of your air.” She heads back inside, disappointed that he doesn’t say anything in response.

He doesn’t join her inside, only hastening her gathering her belongings only to exit again. Her stomach grumbles as she opens the door, hungry as ever.

“I’ll miss you,” she says to him in earnest, ready to leave, and he freezes just as he is about to bring the axe up again. Instead, he drops it and turns to face her.

“You will?” he quietly asks, his hair falling over his face.

She smiles at him gently, dares to walk up to him but not to touch him, unsure how he would react. “Of course,” she tells him. “And I understand that you need your space, more space than most. Just… come find me when you want to see me next. If you want to. I’ll wait.”

His eyes betray just how hard this is for him. “I will,” he says, voice hoarse.

She smiles at him one last time before walking away. She is far down the path when she hears the next crack of wood. As she walks, an old children’s rhyme comes back to her, something about taking one step forward and two steps back.

* * *

It is that very same night that Julian shows up at the palace to turn himself in. Time passes in a blurry chaos between that moment, the simultaneous arrest of Asra, and the trial the next day.

There is a distinct unease in the pit of her stomach as she sits beside the Countess in her booth at the Coliseum. She’s just come back from checking in on Asra and Julian, who had mostly been bickering. She tugs at the skin around her nails as she waits for the trial to starts.

Her heart skips with every sentence uttered throughout the trial, despite Nadia’s assurance that she won’t let anything happen to Asra. When Julian claims he wants a trial by combat and Asra announces their opponent, air flees from her lungs. Muriel walks out, but Asra calls him by another name, one she’s never heard him say before.  _ The Scourge of the South _ .

After the men are taken out of the arena to be outfitted with combat gear, Nadia explains to her the nature of this name. She explains how Lucio had used him as his executioner in this very Coliseum for so many years, and Elora is baffled. Her head thrums painfully as she pieces together where all his scars have come from. The recollection of him refusing to tell her, and how he’d seemed so filled with pain at the mere mention of his past breaks her heart.

“I’ll be right back,” she tells the Countess before running out of the booth.

She runs down to Asra and Julian’s cell, asking them what kind of cruel game they intend to play before demanding they tell her where she can find Muriel.

Asra hesitates. “Maybe that’s not the best of ideas right now, Elora. He needs to be in the right mindset for us to be able to pull this off.”

She glares at him. “I thought you were his friend. How can you ask this of him?”

Hurt and guilt paint themselves on Asra’s face.

“It’ll only be muscle memory for him,” Julian says as he tightens leather straps across his chest.

“How about you mind your own business? You’ve done quite enough already” she snaps at him, and his eyes go wide, but he stays silent.

Asra is still struggling with her accusation. “I’ll make it up to him when this is all over,” he says, but doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

She sighs loudly. “Of course that’s what you’d say,” she huffs, bitter. “I should’ve guessed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, defensive.

“It’s what you always do, Asra,” she says through gritted teeth. “Just like you’ve kept vanishing only to return with an apology, before doing it all over again without fail.”

“That’s not fair,” he whispers, his face falling.

Julian audibly groans, rolling his eyes. “I know I should be minding my own business and all that, but this is hardly the time to start throwing accusations. The trial’s already underway, after all.”

Elara simply glares at him. “So you won’t tell me where he is?” she asks Asra in a last attempt.

“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, not meeting her eyes.

She balls her fists at her sides, wanting to scream. Instead, she returns to the Countess’s side.

“This can’t possibly end well,” she declares as she sits down.

Nadia considers her. “I’m inclined to agree.”

They keep quiet until the trial can resume. Elora grits her teeth as she watches the fight, her hands clutching the balustrade. Muriel hasn’t looked up her way even once so far; she barely recognizes him as he slips back into his combat persona. She isn’t quite sure what to think until Asra is the first to spill blood from his splintered lip. She sees how Muriel hesitates, how Asra has to tell him to keep going. She feels nauseous as she watches them fight each other; this shouldn’t be happening, she is convinced of it.

When Asra makes his collar and chains vanish, she sees how Muriel’s whole demeanor changes, even from a distance. His look of betrayal makes her want to jump down into the Arena to make them stop. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to, as before long Nadia puts an end to everything when Julian gets knocked down.

She is running out of the booth before she even sees Muriel move, completely ignoring Nadia’s calls for her to come back. She stumbles into the crowd, looking everywhere for a silhouette towering over the rest. She cannot find him for the life of her, and she wants to scream at everyone who dares to come in her way.

It’s Asra who ends up finding her, grabbing her arm so the crowd doesn’t carry her away.

“I can’t find Muriel,” she tells him, panicked.

He frowns slightly, before nodding and sending Faust to find him. “Faust will find him faster than we could,” he says, and pauses before sighing. “I’m going to stop by the shop before going back to the palace.”

“I’ll come with you,” she replies immediately, softening as she finally sees the dried up blood on his chin. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing a little magic can’t heal,” he tries joking, but his heart clearly isn’t in it.

“Come on,” she grabs his hand. “Let’s get you out of those ridiculous clothes,” she teases him.

They hold on to each other as they navigate the crowd, its density only reducing when they leave the town square. Asra holds onto her hand just a little too tight the whole way through.

“So… You’re not mad at me anymore?” he attempts.

“We can get back to that later,” she huffs, smirking.

The last thing she expects to see when she walks into the shop, Asra holding the door for her, is Muriel sat the reading table, Faust twirling around his arm. She freezes. Asra, right behind her, walks to him hesitantly.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he says.

Muriel won’t meet his eyes. “I just… I had to make sure you’re not really hurt. That you’re okay.”

Asra swipes at his mouth with his arm, trying to remove some of the blood. “I’ll be fine. What about you?”

Muriel huffs. “I’m not hurt.”

“No, I mean…” Asra hesitates. “I’m sorry you had to do this. I’m sorry I asked you. And I’m sorry I made your chains disappear. I know you weren’t ready yet, it’s just, in the moment...” he trails off, wincing.

“I’ll be fine,” Muriel echoes, lowering his arm so Faust can slither to the ground. He doesn’t sound nearly as convinced as when Asra first said the words.

Then, he looks up to look at her, but casts his eyes back to the ground almost immediately, like the sight of her is painful. Her stupor finally fades.

“I told you you should be afraid of me,” he tells her, his voice barely above a whisper.

She moves towards him, kneels beside him and he still won’t meet her eyes. Slowly, she reaches to push the hair out of his face, silently begging him to look at her. He does, reluctantly. Behind her, she is aware that Asra has started to shuffle around quietly.

“Listen,” she starts, taking a deep breath. “I’ve asked how you got your scars already, right? I’m sorry I got my answer like this, that you didn’t get to tell me on your own terms. But I’m not sorry I know now. I’ve told you this already, Muriel,” her voice breaks, “I’m not afraid of you.”

He visibly struggles to process this. She reaches for one of his hands and presses her lips to the inside of his wrist, on the pale strip of skin where a shackle used to rest. When she does, she doesn’t register the way any sound from Asra’s movements halts.

“I…,” Muriel starts, “I don’t understand you.”

His eyes are helpless, but she can’t help the light chuckle that escapes her. “That’s okay. You will, someday.”

Asra clears his throat behind her. “I’m going to change out of these clothes upstairs, and I’ll be ready to head back to the palace.”

Elora nods. “I’ll go with you. To the palace.”

He lingers for a second, before heading to his room upstairs. She turns her focus back to Muriel, who still seems tense. She gently rubs the wrist she is still holding.

“Are you okay with the chains being off?” she asks him, genuinely concerned. “I assume there’s a reason you wore them.”

He shudders at the way she uses her thumbs to massage the skin where the shackle used to be. “I don’t like it but… I think it might be a good thing,” he sighs.

She smiles to encourage him. She lets go of his hand, lifting a hand up towards his neck. “Is it okay if I touch you there?” she asks, hand hovering above his chest.

He nods, eyes closing, jaw setting. She is as gentle as she possibly can as she slides her hands across the skin even paler there than on his wrists. He shudders once more at the contact, but doesn’t pull away, eyes still closed. To make things easier, she moves to sit in his lap, her knees on either side of his legs. The pillow under them makes the balancing tricky, but she manages, holding onto him. She moves to kiss his neck where it meets his shoulder with all the affection she can muster, her chest brushing against his, and his breath catches, almost strangled in his throat.

She feels his arms encircle her waist, stabilizing her with his embrace. She pulls away slightly, sliding a hand to his chest in search of his heartbeat. It is frantic under her palm, and he is looking at her in a way he has never before now, in a way that screams that his guard is completely down. It makes her own heart skip a beat.

She is slow to lean her mouth against his, giving him plenty of time to back away. She is glad that he doesn’t, that instead he kisses her like a forlorn man, slow and full of longing. She lets herself get caught up in the moment, dragging her hands from his neck to past his hairline and then back to his neck again. She tries to stay alert for when he might start trembling, the usual sign it’s time for her to back down, but it doesn’t come. Instead of shaking, his arms are holding her tight, his fingers pressing into her sides.

They are startled apart when glass shatters behind them, dark tinted shards lying at Asra’s feet. His eyes are wide, his mouth gaping slightly. He shakes out of it as Elora hastily shifts away from Muriel, un-straddling him and rising to her feet with a crimson blush. She hadn’t meant to get so carried away. Muriel rises too, livid.

“I didn’t know the two of you were…,” Asra trails off, still reeling from the shock. “When did… I can’t… Wait, it all makes sense now… That’s why you were so worried about him at the Coliseum!”

“You were?” Muriel asks her, surprised.

“Of course,” she breathes, bashful as she stares up at him.

Asra groans, rubbing his brow. “I can’t believe  _ Ilya _ was right. Of all people. He barely even knows the two of you.”

“Wait, Julian? What did he say?” she asks, the three of them now at similar levels of shock.

Pink dusts Asra’s cheeks and his eyes dart all over the room. “I’d rather not repeat. His choice of words wasn’t exactly… elegant.”

Elora turns a shade darker and Muriel stills.

“I hate him,” he groans.

Elora can’t help but laugh. “This is awful. This needs to be over; are you ready to go, Asra?” she asks, hoping to dispel the tension.

He nods.

“Asra, before you go… I need to speak with you,” Muriel says, eyes cast on the ground.

“Oh. Of course, yes.”

Elora can tell just how much they are saying to each other without uttering a single word. She gets the hint.

“I’ll go wait outside while you talk,” she says, and turns to Muriel one last time. She takes his hands and presses them tightly. “I’ll miss you,” she tells him. She might’ve kissed his cheek if he wasn’t so impossible to reach when they are both standing.

“I…,” he starts, “I hope I see you soon.”

Her heart swells. “You know where to find me,” she winks at him, and with that she lets go of his hands and heads for the door. She can’t catch Asra’s eyes as she walks past him.

As she waits outside, she mindlessly fiddles with the pendant she has dug up from under her dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't like the mcelroys i am truly sorry for these harrowing author's notes, they're just all the bad shitposts i'll never make an arcana sideblog for
> 
> now that being said
> 
> *justice being administered through gladiator fights in vesuvia*  
> lucio: I feel pretty good about our constitution as is, actually right now
> 
> *plague erupts*  
> lucio, glancing out the window of the castle, sighing: i gotta go there's trouble in ves... i forget what i called my city fuCK  
> vulgora, to the courtiers: oh uh oh, watch out beetle boys
> 
> *lucio feeds [redacted for spoilers] to julian*  
> julian: yO WHAT THE FUCK DAWG
> 
> *lucio as a goat specter, literally useless*  
> lucio: i am part goat part boy, boygoat, the protector and king of vesuvia!!
> 
> *mc in lucio's wing trying to coax him out for intel*  
> mc, rattling a stick on the walls: lucioooooo.... come out and playyyyy


	6. Samson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaking the continuity with a flashback to three years before the plague. How Muriel met Elora for the very first time, when they were different people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was already posted on my blog I said I'd never make as an answer to a prompt, but it's important for where the story goes from now. If you've read this already on my tumblr @moon-hermit, dw I got you there are still two brand new chapters after this ;)

The chime of the bell when he opens the door to the magic shop Asra told him about rings loudly in Muriel’s ears, too loudly. Stars are swimming before his eyes and he feels dizzy, but he promised he would run this errand for him. He’s not going to let a coliseum fight stand in the way of that.

As he steps inside, someone shrieks, and he winces.

“Are you okay?” the girl behind the counter says, slightly panicked in her concern. 

He frowns when he looks at her. The outline of her is blurry, but he’s pretty sure this is not the middle-aged stout woman Asra told him about. The only similarity he sees with the description he was given is the long silvery hair, longer than his own. The girl before him is much younger, he’d say younger than him but maybe older than Asra. 

“I’ve been worse,” he clears his throat, and advances to the counter to rest his hands on there, taking advantage of a surface to hold on to.

The girl’s eyes grow wide. “You’re covered in blood,” she states matter-of-factly.

He looks down to his chest. Covered is an exaggeration, but he’s not exactly spotless either. He groans. This is not the discrete no-questions-asked task he was promised.

“It’s not mine,” he mutters. “Mostly.”

Something in his shoulder throbs, and he can’t help a wince. The girl steps away from behind the counter and comes up to him. He’s wary as he watches her approach, startles when she lifts to her toes and reaches to grab his chin and swipe her thumb on his chapped lips before tilting his head at an angle.

“You’re dehydrated,” she frowns as she studies him. “You’re clearly unwell. I’m training to be a nurse, let me help you,” she says, letting go of his head.

“I’m just here to pick up stuff for my friend,” he huffs, taking a step away from her. He pulls out the list Asra gave him. “Here,” he hands it to her.

She takes it, goes back and forth between looking at him and the paper. 

“My aunt makes this special blend of restorative tea,” she says, “at least let me brew you some to drink while I get all this ready.”

A wave of vertigo hits him, and he clutches the counter harder. Perhaps resting _just a bit_ might not hurt. 

“…. Fine,” he groans.

She smiles victoriously and sets the list down on the counter. “Here, follow me, the kitchen’s in the back,” she says, and he walks behind her to a room further down. “You can sit over there,” she says, motioning to a bench seat lining a windowed alcove, covered in cushions. It’s an odd shape, too big for any type of seat, but he settles on the edge regardless.

He shuts his eyes and focuses on his pained breathing as she puts a kettle on the stove. Feeling her eyes on him, he opens his eyes back to look at her. 

“What,” he says, not so much a question as a mark of annoyance.

“Are you one of those gladiators? From the fights at the coliseum?” she asks, squinting slightly.

Does she not recognize him? Any answer he might have for her is cut short by a burst of light-headedness. Seeing his malaise, she dampens a washcloth and brings it over to him, pressing it to his forehead herself.

“You should lie down,” she says, her voice lower than earlier. 

He doesn’t have it in him to fight back. Besides, lying down seems wonderful right about that moment. She arranges pillows for him to lean back on, and he clumsily lifts himself deeper into the benched alcove. The kettle starts to sing, the sound unbearable to him in this state.

“Gods, make it stop,” he complains.

She walks hurriedly to the kettle, and he watches her pour the hot water into a sturdy-looking teapot, before dumping in a generous amount of dry herbs. He shuts his eyes and drifts dangerously close to sleep until she brings him a steaming mug.

“Careful, it’s hot,” she cautions him, offering it to him. She reaches to lift the washcloth on his forehead and touch underneath. “You’re burning up,” she tells him, concern evident in her eyes. “Whatever you did to strain yourself like this, maybe don’t next time?”

“Mmmh,” is all he’s able to muster. Carefully, he takes a sip, and grimaces not at the warmth but at the horrible taste. “That’s disgusting,” he chokes.

Her mouth quirks into a smirk. “I’m sure you can handle it. Come on, drink up. I’m not getting to the order until that mug is empty.”

He rolls his eyes, but he obliges. The tea tastes horrible, but he’s so thirsty it’s not too hard to ignore its flavour. He ends up downing it quickly. She smiles, satisfied as she takes the cup back from him. 

“I’ll refill this for you, and then I’ll get those items ready for you,” she says, going back to the teapot. “Don’t you dare get up until then.”

Even if he wanted to, he’s not sure he could. He’s so exhausted, on top of everything else. By the time she’s back by his side with a filled mug, he’s already knocked out cold, slouched on the cushions. The last thing he remembers before drifting away from consciousness is her running the washcloth into his hairline, pushing his hair out of his face.

* * *

It’s the middle of the night when he stirs awake. His head is throbbing. His shoulder is sore. He groans as he tries to sit up.

“Hey hey hey, not so fast now, easy,” he hears her say, walking up to him.

He’s so disoriented, he knows where he is but also has a hard time wrapping his mind around it. He sees the open book laid spine-up on the chair by the stove. Has she been… watching over him?

“How do you feel?” she asks him softly. 

The shop is eerily quiet in the dead of night, candlelight casting a warm glow on the walls.

He grunts, rolling his shoulders as best he can. His stomach churns. “…. Hungry.”

She chuckles softly. “Okay, hold on,” she tells him before going to what he assumes is the pantry. 

She comes back moments later with dry toast and more of that horrid tea.

“It’s not much, but let’s not risk bringing on nausea into the mix,” she says, handing him the plate.

“That tea’s gonna do it more than anything else,” he mutters, reluctantly taking a sip.

“You’ll be grateful in the morning, I promise,” she poorly stifles an amused smirk.

She goes back to her chair as he slowly eats. He still feels terrible, but at least now his vision isn’t spotty anymore, and he’s no longer caked in grime - _wait_. He looks down at his torso, clean of any dried blood or dirt.

“Did you _clean_ me?” he asks, appalled and feeling a significant amount of heat creep up his neck.

“You had cuts all over,” she shrugs, not even looking up from her book. “I couldn’t leave you like that, they were going to get infected.”

He doesn’t even know what to say. He’s not sure whether he’s thankful or disappointed he was asleep for it. She notices when she looks up to see him staring at her indignantly. 

“Oh, calm down,” she sighs. “It’s not like I bathed you, I simply removed all that filth with a rag and applied a bit of balm on the cuts. I told you, I’m going to be a nurse soon, I know what I’m doing.”

He takes a long sip of tea.

“Your hair’s a mess, though, you should let me do something about it,” she muses.

He nearly spits out the tea.

“No thanks,” he coughs.

“When’s the last time you cut it?” she persists.

He doesn’t answer, bites down harshly on a piece of toast. She looks at him, insistent.

“I don’t know how,” he admits.

He braces himself for her to mock him, but she doesn’t. She just keeps staring at him, tilting her head slightly.

“I’d be happy to do it for you,” she simply reiterates.

He shakes his head. “Why? Why would you do that?”

She seems to actually ponder her answer. “I guess you look like you could use a break,” she says. “When’s the last time you let someone take care of you?”

He almost wants to laugh. He doesn’t answer. Asra and him look out for each other, but he suspects that’s not what she means.

“Listen,” she says, gentle, “I won’t do it if you don’t want me to, obviously, but think about it. Offer doesn’t expire,” she stifles a yawn.

He finishes his almost-meal in silence. He doesn’t even know her name, he realizes. What is he even still doing here? As if on cue, a sharp pain in his shoulder answers that question. He finds himself actually considering her offer. If he doesn’t let her, will it ever happen? His hair seems to hang heavier on his head as he reflects on his choices.

“Okay,” he finally sighs. _This is stupid. I shouldn’t trust her with this._

“Uh?” she asks, looking back up from her book.

“Don’t make me say it,” he groans. 

Her brows shoot up. “Oh! Okay! Do you, uh, are you up for washing your hair first then?”

He inhales deeply. _Absolutely foolish_. “Now?”

She smiles, a twinge amused. “Do you have anything better to do?”

* * *

“Stop squirming!” she laughs lightly, the sound clear as it rings out, filling the room. 

The towel around his shoulders is damp from his clean hair. He feels like his entire scalp is numb, from the way she’s just pulled at it so hard, battling to untangle his hair. The dull scissors snip close to his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Have you even ever done this before?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer. He hears another shearing noise.

“This was a mistake,” he groans.

“Shh,” she half-chuckles. “You’ll be glad when it’s over.”

She runs her fingers through the hair she has yet to cut. A different kind of shudder runs through him. What was he thinking, agreeing to this? Agreeing to stay for her stupid tea in the first place?

“What’s your name, by the way?” she asks him. _Snip._

“Does it matter?”

“I’m cutting your hair free of charge and nursing you back to health after you nearly fainted in the middle of my aunt’s shop,” she points out. “The least you could do is tell me your name.”

He sighs. _She’s right_. “Muriel,” he mutters.

“Muriel,” she echoes. “It’s a soft name, for someone like you.”

He tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She stills. “You’re, uh,” she stutters, “big.”

That much is pretty self-evident. So then, why does she sound almost flustered saying it? Why does he care?

“What’s _your_ name?” he asks her after an awkward silence.

“Elora,” she says as she keeps cutting away.

“Uh,” is all he’s able to reply. “It’s a, erm, nice name.”

_Nice name? Really?_ he chastises himself. He’s glad she’s standing behind him, that she can’t see his face.

“If this is your aunt’s shop, then where…?” he trails off, unsure why he even asks, just desperate to have the conversation move on.

“She’s in Prakra,” she answers. “She had to go replenish her stock of some rarer ingredients, or at least that’s what she told me. I’m only keeping watch while she’s gone.”

A longer silence stretches, only disturbed by the shearing of the scissors. When he glances to the floor, it’s littered with dark hair. Only then does it sink in, that she really is cutting his hair, that he won’t have this heap of hair to apprehend anymore.

“Can I ask you why you do it?” she asks softly. “Why you fight?”

He never answered her earlier question about the way he wound up like this, but he realizes it didn’t stop her from drawing her own conclusions.

“Let’s just say I don’t have much of a choice,” he sighs grimly. “I don’t like it. I hate it, actually. But things would be worse if I stopped.”

“Oh,” she simply replies. “I guess you could say you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, then.”

“I guess you could say that,” he agrees without much enthusiasm.

They don’t speak much more as she finishes her work on him. He can feel her cutting it shorter than what he had in mind. It makes him slightly anxious, wondering what he’ll look like after this.

“Okay!” she exclaims at last, startling him. She walks around him to look at the whole thing from the front.  “I think I’m done,” she says, examining him. “Do you want to see?”

He nods, gulping. She reaches for the hand mirror she kept close through the whole thing.

“I hope you like it,” she says, and he hears her nerves in how her voice trembles.

She lifts the mirror and he’s taken aback when he sees his reflection. He looks older, for one. His hair is now short enough that it won’t be falling on his face until it grows back out, and it’s an odd feeling. It’s so different, he doesn’t know how he feels about it. It’ll be more practical, that’s for sure. Won’t get impossibly tangled anymore.

She hands him the mirror as she sweeps the hair fallen to the ground.

“What do you think?” she chews on her lip.

He’s still contemplating his reflexion. “It’s… different.”

She nods, understanding what he means. She seems about to say something but stops herself.

“What?” he prompts her.

“I think it suits you,” she bites her cheek, not meeting his eyes. “You look, uh, handsome.”

She might as well have punched him in the stomach; he feels like all the air has left his lungs. When’s the last time someone has called him handsome? 

“…. Thanks,” he flushes red. “I, uh, I guess you did alright.”

She smiles at him, but it’s quickly overtaken by a yawn. She stretches out her arms. “Maybe we ought to get some sleep now.”

“Uh uh,” he agrees, still slightly reeling.

She picks up the dustpan and tosses his hair away. It’s an odd feeling.

“My bed’s upstairs,” she pauses to yawn once more, “But feel free to wake me up if you need something. You don’t mind sleeping in the kitchen, do you? There are no extra beds.”

“Okay,” he nods, fully knowing he wouldn’t wake her unless the entire shop was burning. “And yes, the kitchen is fine.”

“Good night, then,” she smiles as she heads for the stairs. 

His throat tightens as he tries to figure out what he wants to say. “Elora?” he says tentatively.

She turns back around to face him. He’s struck by the realization that she might actually be the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. It ties his tongue in a whole new way.

“Yes?” she says.

“Thank you,” he clears his throat. “For everything.”

She smiles, and it mirrors in her eyes. “Don’t mention it.”

* * *

In the morning, Muriel is awoken by voices in the front of the shop. He blinks as he catches the bright sunlight through the windows. How long has he been sleeping for?

“… seen my friend, maybe? Really tall, usually prone to brooding, he was supposed to stop by here,” he hears a familiar voice. 

_Asra?_ He gets up in a hurry, too surprised to notice just how much better he feels compared to last night.

“Might ring a bell,” he hears Elora say, and he doesn’t even have to see her smirk to know it’s there.

He steps out of the kitchen. “Asra?” he asks, rubbing his brow, voice still hoarse from sleep.

Asra lets out a deep sigh of relief. “There you are! Do you know how worried I was when you never came home? What- woah, what happened to your hair?”

Muriel instinctively runs a hand through what’s left of it. He only just now remembers it’s shorter now, much shorter.

“Doesn’t it look good?” Elora interjects proudly.

“Did you do this?” Asra asks her, incredulous.

“Maybe,” she smiles.

Asra whistles. “It’s… different. I like it.”

Muriel is, frankly, a bit overwhelmed by all of this. The events of the night seem so improbable he’s not even sure anymore what’s real and what was a dream. 

Elora fishes out a paper bag from behind the counter and sets it before Asra.

“Everything on your list is in there,” she says. “I’m guessing it was your list?”

“Correct,” Asra smiles at her, before he squints slightly. He’s making that face when he’s trying to remember something. “I’m sorry, this might come off as weird, but have we ever met before? You look familiar.”

Elora shakes her head. “Unless you have a habit of going to Nopal, I doubt it. I’m usually only ever in Vesuvia for the-”

“The masquerade,” Asra completes, realization dawning on him.

Muriel’s stomach churns. _Surely, she can’t be-_

Elora’s eyes grow wide. “It’s you,” she breathes. “The boy from the bubble room.”

Usually, that’s where Asra would quip something funny, perhaps even teasing. But he’s just staring at her, jaw slack with shock. Muriel feels like he’s watching a meteorite crash to the Earth, something powerful and inevitable he has no control over. There’s a bitterness that blooms in his chest against his will.

Muriel’s heard Asra’s story about the girl from the bubble room a thousand times already. How for three years now, he’s run into her there at the masquerade, always at the stroke of midnight. The first year he danced with her. The second they talked all night. Last masquerade, he’d brazenly kissed her on sight. Every year, she’d slipped away into the night, anonymous, and Asra wouldn’t shut up about it for the weeks to come.

And now he’s found her. And now Muriel feels foolish, to have thought even in the back of his mind that she was his in any way, shape, or form. His stranger who took him in and healed him and cut his hair and told him he was handsome. 

He can see it plain as day, from the way that they’re looking at each other now, that this is their moment. That in the grand scheme of things, he only ended up here so Asra would find her, not so that _he_ would meet her.

_Makes more sense that way_ , he thinks to himself. _Won’t get fooled again._


	7. Needle In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking back up right after chapter 5!

When Elora closes the door behind her, Asra fetches a broom to clean up the broken glass. Muriel doesn’t know where to start, doesn’t know how to explain to his very best friend, the only person he’s ever been able to count on, that he’s let himself fall for the one he sacrificed half of his heart for.

“Asra…,” he starts, his voice choking out everything meant to come after. “I’m sorry, I…,”

Asra stays focused on the cleaning up, breathing deeply. “I just can’t believe that I was paying so little attention to you both that I didn’t see it coming,” he sighs. “I’ve been a terrible friend, haven’t I?”

“No,” Muriel says, definite. “That’s not true.”

Asra looks at him, unconvinced. “Then tell me why instead of being happy for you, I… All I can feel is dread, Muriel.”

Muriel shuts his eyes, tight. “You loved her,” he lays out plainly, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s why.”

Asra sighs. “I can’t expect her to feel the way she used to. She’s not the same as she used to be, you know that. Similar enough for me to love her still, sometimes it feels like some part of me always will, but not similar enough for her to love me again, it seems. She’s softer now, much gentler than she ever was before. More sensitive, too, I’m only now seeing.” Asra pauses, studying him as he leans on the broom. “I guess you’re different too, now.”

Muriel frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Asra smiles at him sadly, before putting away the debris. “Just think about who you were six years ago, when you met her for the first time. Do you remember how every time she’d join us you’d find an excuse to leave?”

Muriel shakes his head as it starts to spin. He’s made a point of not thinking about the way things were, even less about how he used to know her. Thinking about it feels like he’s cheating her out of those memories, it makes him feel guilty beyond measure.

“And now you let her get close,” Asra continues. “When she touches you, you don’t jump back three feet like you used to. The person you were three years ago, he wouldn’t have let her in. Wouldn’t have let anyone even remember his name”

Muriel makes a sour face at the comment, despite knowing full-well how true it is. “I…,” he struggles to say, “I never meant for it to happen.”

Asra sighs, leaning against the corner. “Does anyone ever? She cares about you so much, it’s plain as day now that I can see it. You do too, don’t you?”

Muriel can’t bear to meet his eyes as he nods imperceptibly. He wants to tell him he’s sorry it had to be her, but who else could it have been, really? “It’s all very… new for me. I’m not sure I understand everything yet.”

“That’s okay,” Asra exhales. “I’m glad you’re finally getting the love you deserve, truly.”

Muriel chokes at the choice of words. “I don’t know about  _ love _ ,” he mumbles, blushing beet red.

Asra only smirks in response. “She doesn’t really do half-measures. You’ll figure that out soon enough. She cares fiercely or, well,” his jaw sets, “not at all.”

Muriel frowns. “She cares about you still.”

“I guess,” he shrugs. “Not that it really matters.”

Muriel doesn’t know what to answer. He isn’t even sure what that means.

“It’s getting late,” Asra sighs. “We should go.”

Muriel only nods. He follows him out of the shop. Elora is standing a few feet away from the door, fidgeting with the pouch hanging from her neck as she stares at the clouds. The sound of the door opening breaks her out of her reverie, and she turns to grant him a melancholic smile. Something in his chest tightens.

“Ready to go?” she asks, her eyes sliding over from him to Asra.

Asra nods, walking to her. Muriel finds himself stuck in place. He wishes she wouldn’t have to go yet, that he could be with her just a bit longer. He can still feel the flutter of her lips on the skin at the base of his throat, is still reeling from the aftershock of how it had seemed to make everything okay. He can only bring himself to wave them goodbye, and Asra waves back while she lingers a second longer, biting her lip, before turning to follow Asra down the street.

He watches them walk away, unsure what he’ll do next. They’re about to turn the corner when she halts. She says something to Asra he can’t hear, and before he knows it, she whips around, running back towards the shop.

His brow furrows. “Did you forget something?” he asks her as she gets close enough to be within earshot.

She doesn’t bother to reply. Instead, she flings herself at him, rising to the top of her toes as she wraps her arms around his neck to get him to bend down. He’s shell-shocked, bending at her will, and she takes advantage of it to plant a kiss on his cheek. He grows crimson. He can feel the heat of his flush on his neck.

She lets him go promptly, looking up to him with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I just wanted to say goodbye properly.”

A small smile he can’t fight back tugs at the corners of his mouth as he struggles to find what to say. “..... Be safe,” he settles on, the words hard to get out.

“I’ll try,” she winks, and just as fast as she rushed to him, she rushes back to where Asra is waiting, looking everywhere but towards them.

He’s still standing in front of the shop after they turn the corner and leave his sight. A sudden wave of exhaustion crashes over him. He’s had more than enough emotions for one day; he decides it’s time to head home.

Elora is all he can think about as he walks the forest paths back to his hut. Being in the shop earlier had brought up old, very old memories as he’d waited for them to arrive. How had he forgotten so much about the night he’d met Elora? He’d mostly tried to block it, before then. As it comes back to mind, he instinctively reaches for his hair. He catches himself wondering if she’d ever cut it for him again. It’s odd, thinking back to the few times she forced him to sit down while she cut his hair before the plague, how no matter how cold he was to her she still insisted.

What would Elora say now if she knew? She seems to think he used to fear her. That’s not what it had been, of course not, who would be scared of her? It was worse than that. He used to be so mad at her. It hadn’t been a boiling rage, more of a simmering frustration he had never taken the time to understand. Nursing that kind of irrational anger for three years of watching her and Asra fall so helplessly in love while he retreated to the shadows, it had tainted everything.

When she died and came back, the anger had started to fade. Asra was right earlier; she has changed. In small yet meaningful ways, ways that made it hard to keep the frustration alive. The resentment morphed into a wariness. He didn’t want to go back page one, had no interest in reliving the old story from the start. Asra had wanted him to let her remember him, at first, insisting it would make things easier when he traveled. Muriel had been resolute in his stance. In a very far-off corner of his mind, he had remembered what it had felt like to meet her, and he wasn’t about to go through that once more only to watch her fall back in love with Asra.

And then she didn’t fall back in love with him. It’s been as big a shock for him as for Asra, frankly. There’s a cruel irony in the symmetry of having Asra tell him about the girl from the masquerade for three years, then bringing her into their life for the next three, only to go back to lamenting how much he longed to be with her for the three years after that.

The morning that had followed his first kiss with Elora - and he reddens at the recollection, at this being something that happened - he had woken up with a sour taste in his mouth. He’d felt like there was a timebomb in his bed, like now that he’d let his guard down with her it was almost inevitable in the pattern of things that she’d end up looking into Asra’s eyes and forget all about him. Again.

Some part of him is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, although it did grow smaller today. He hates that Asra had to watch her kiss him, especially the way she did, and yet he finds solace in the fact that she wasn’t apologetic about it afterwards. She wouldn’t feel the need for it, she doesn’t know, of course.  _ Will she ever know? _ His stomach churns with anxiety at the question.

By the time he reaches his hut, he’s about ready to topple onto the bed. Inanna welcomes him with a whiny owl, rubbing up to his leg.

“Sorry for leaving you alone here,” he breathes as he pets her head. “I told you I’d be okay, didn’t I?”

The look in her eyes is almost scolding, and it draws a soft chuckle from him. He scratches under her head before he moves on, eager to fall onto the bed. He should probably clean himself up, he knows, but he doesn’t have the energy. As he drifts steadfast towards sleep, he catches a whiff of sage and incense. He realizes it’s the pillow right by his head; two days later, and it still smells like her. A pang of yearning resonates through his entire being.

He really does hope he’ll see her soon.


	8. Would That I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's muriel-loving hour ladies hermit boy deserves the world (and by the world I mean the tarot card aka everything he's been searching for and moving towards on his journey).
> 
> also if you like these two fools consider checking out my tumblr (plugging again @moon-hermit) there might be one or two bitses of writing about them over there!

The following morning, Elora is awoken by a rattle against the windowed doors of her balcony at the palace. She blinks hazily out of slumber as the noise remains restless. There is a shadow hovering behind the glass, backlit by the faint lightening of the sky that preludes to dawn. 

“Chandra?” Elora mutters to herself, puzzled.

Why would the countess’s owl wake her up so early? Does Nadia need to see her? With the trouble she’s been having sleeping, it’s not impossible that she would send for her regardless of the hour.

Elora reluctantly slides out of her bed to go open the door. At once, Chandra flies in and perches herself on the canopy of the bed. She shrieks intently as her stare pierces through her.

“Fine, fine, just let me put something on,” Elora concedes, knowing there’s no point asking what’s going on until she’s been led where the bird means to take her.

She throws on a jumpsuit made of the flowiest of fabrics, the closest thing to nightclothes she can afford to wear out of her room. After lazily pinning her hair up behind her head, she heads for the door into the palace, and immediately Chandra swoops through the opening, beckoning Elora to follow.

She does, and as she trails behind, she registers the cold air brushing on her bare arms. She shivers slightly and finds herself wishing she’d thought to bring along a shawl.

She doesn’t pay much attention to where Chandra is leading her, barely awake still, until she stumbles out onto the terrasse, the leftover chill of nighttime now thick all around her.

“Aren’t you taking me to Nadia?” Elora asks the owl, hesitant to follow it down into the maze of the gardens before the sun has even risen.

Chandra only hoots, insistent, flying circles around her. Elora rolls her eyes, but heads down the stone stairs. Whatever the bird wants to show her, it must be important. Blades of grass coat her feet, bare in her sandals, with dewdrops when she hops off the last step.

Chandra doesn’t wait for her before flying off into the depths of the garden. Elora works really hard on stifling the curses threatening to spill out of her as she follows.  _ It’s too early for this _ , she thinks.

The path is dim as she follows Chandra to the edge of the garden. She couldn’t say why, but she feels slightly on edge; she just wishes dawn would break already. To her surprise, she ends up at the very limit where the hedge surrounding the garden fades into the forest. Even more surprising, there is a large shadow by the treeline, staring back at her with wide eyes.

“Muriel?” she asks, blinking in confusion. “Are you okay? What are you doing here?”

Chandra flies away back to the palace with a last hoot. Muriel seems to hesitate.

“I…” he starts, looking sideways, “I woke up early.”

She chuckles softly as the initial shock fades. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I didn’t mean to come here,” he clears his throat. “I, uh, I went to take a walk and just sort of… ended up here.”

Elora raises her brow.

“I was going to turn around, but that owl started screeching at me… its name is Chandra, right? Nadia’s owl?”

Elora nods patiently. “You know her?”

Muriel reddens. “Enough to know the bird was on its way to fetch someone.”

She bites back a smile. “Someone?”

His eyes cast down once more. “... I had a feeling it might be you.”

At that, she can no longer hold back the grin. She can feel the rough canvas of the pouch resting heavy against her heart. Slowly, she walks to him, slides her hand down his arm before taking his hand. He shudders, and his eyes close for a second, but he doesn’t pull away, instead presses her fingers with his own.

“How are you?” she asks him, concern bleeding through. “After yesterday?”

He exhales heavily. “... Fine.”

She squints at him, not quite believing him, but chooses not to press any further for the moment. She lets her thumb brush over his fingers, so wide and calloused over hers.

“Do you want to walk through the gardens with me?” she asks, looking up at him.

He stares ahead to the gardens with an air of apprehension. After the previous day, she can piece together why.

“Whatever happens next with Lucio,” she starts, and he winces, “This isn’t his anymore. None of it is. Not the palace, not Vesuvia.” She squeezes his hand tight. “Not you,” she whispers. “You’re free,” she rubs his recently bared wrist with her other hand, “And all the rest is Nadia’s now.”

His eyes are shut tight through all she says to him. It feels like her heart is cracking from the sight of his internal torment. She wants to cast whatever is left of Lucio’s spirit to all corners of hell.

A cold breeze runs past them, and she shivers unwittingly. He finally opens his eyes, and pain seems to be numbed with concern.

“You’re cold,” he says, voice coarse.

“I don’t mind.”

“Hmm,” he groans. “There’ll be less wind in the gardens.”

She smiles bright at him when she understands what he means. She tugs at his arm as she steps back towards the gardens. He follows, but there is still a wariness to him.

“What if we run into guards,” he says more than he asks.

“I’ll handle them if we do,” she winks at him mischievously. “As long as you’re here with me, I won’t let them bother you.”

His eyes grow wide with stupor. She wonders why. Not the reaction she anticipated.

They walk together, slowly and in silence. She doesn’t let go of his hand, and her heart stammers when he starts rubbing his thumb gently down the back of her hand. She wouldn’t know how to call it, whatever it is they share. It’s special, too special for any words she knows of. Above them, the sky is turning a soft pink as the first light of sunrise appears on the horizon. Without meaning to, she leads them to a circular clearing where a tall willow tree stands, the edge of the clearing delimited by a bed of daisies.

She looks up to gage his expression; he’s hard to read as ever, but at least he doesn’t seem stressed.

“What’s on your mind?” she asks him.

A flush creeps up his neck. “I…” he starts, and swallows, “I miss you all the time, I think.”

Her breath catches in her throat. Have his eyes ever been so soft as they are now, peering down at her? Feeling a burst of affection, she lifts to her toes and plants a soft kiss on his shoulder, brushing aside the cape. When she looks back up at him, he’s flushed red. There’s also a new flame to his gaze, dull but still burning.

It’s like her heart does a somersault when he’s the one to lean down, to cradle her head in his hands and to press his lips onto hers with a suffocating tenderness. She gives into him, sighs into the kiss as her hands slide up the nape of his neck. A hunger awakens in her, a hunger for him that has her holding onto him for dear life. They stumble back until her back rests against the rough bark of a tree, but the height difference remains a strain. With his hands secure on her waist, he brings her down with him, and while he moves to have her straddle his lap, she changes their course and has him lay her in the dirt, clutching to the collar of his fur cape. He holds himself up above her easily with an arm, one of his knees lodged between her own.

The new position they find themselves in is overwhelming, and when she runs her fingers through his hair at the back of his head he makes a strangled moan, one that sends her whole being aflutter. She soon follows with a whimper, yearning to get closer to him still somehow as he kisses her like she didn’t know someone could be kissed. The ground is cold and humid against her bare back, but she hardly notices with the blazing heat emanating out of his chest.

When his trembling returns, he almost yelps as she pulls away from him. He chases her mouth down with his own, but she brings a hand to his chest to keep him from leaning down any further.

“You need a break,” she whispers to him, eyes still shut.

With a grown, he lets his head fall into the crook of her neck, and she laughs softly as she brings her hand up to pat his hair. After a moment like this, she uses her hand still on his chest to push him to roll over, the arm holding him up still shaking slightly. He falls on his back with a thump, and she can’t help a giddy smile from tugging at her mouth as she rolls onto her side to look at him. She holds her head up with one hand and rests the other on his chest, just where she can feel his heart beat like a war drum underneath.

Without a word he draws her closer with his arm, has her nestle against his side and rest her head on his shoulder. It makes her own heartbeat pick up, that he wants her so close. Above them the willow leaves rustle with the wind, bright pink and orange tinting the sky through them, but this time she doesn’t feel cold.

They lie there silently, both allowing their breathing to steady and their pulse to calm down. Pressed against him like this, her mind wanders to places that make her cheeks glow with heat.

“I…” she starts, but bites her cheek to prevent herself from completing her thought.

“Hmm?” he prompts her.

She breathes in deep. “I think I’m going to fall in love with you.”

His whole body tenses, and she regrets saying it immediately. It’s too much, too early, no matter how genuine.

His silence and suddenly hollow breath send her into a tailspin of worry. She doesn’t dare move even though all she wants is to cling onto him if it’s the last thing she gets to do.

And then a single tremor spasms through him. She lifts herself up suddenly to get a better look at him. His eyes are shut tight, so tight, and a single teardrop is trailing down the side of his head towards the ground.

“Muriel?” she asks, concerned and confused. She wants to reach out to him but doesn’t want him to be uncomfortable. “Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong. It’s what I said, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I -”

He cuts her short, eyes half-opening as he grabs her waist and pulls her on top of him like she weighs nothing more than a rag doll as he sits up. She cries out in surprise. When her eyes meet his, the wind gets knocked out of her. It’s all laid bare for her to see. The pain, the anguish, the desire, and bright like a beacon, something new that never was there before. It’s the prayer of the atheist. Hope, desperate and fragile, but hope nonetheless.

Her own throat tightens as she lifts herself up to kiss the tear away. It’s her who’s trembling now, she realizes. On her way back down, she hovers, her mouth leveled but not aligned with his. His hands slide down inches to her hips, grip there, begging silently. His breath is ragged and loud.

“Elo,” he pleas, so quietly for how deafening it feels. Her heart skips a beat, then another.

She presses her lips back against his, a mercy for both him and herself. It’s too much and it’s not enough. She whimpers, and he’s shaking again. He lets his head fall into the bend of her neck again, strangling a curse. She wraps her arms around his back, under the cape where her skin rests against his, and holds him close to her. He encircles her with his arms too, drawing her to him so unbelievably close.

She never thought he’d allow himself to hold her like that. It’s a selfish amount of tight, the amount he needs and isn’t hesitant to take. It’s the perfect amount.

“I’m yours,” she whispers into his ear, and his breath drags as his fingers dig into her back unwittingly. “You have me now.”

“...Why me?” he asks, the question muffled.

It takes her by surprise.

“It could only be you. You’re the only one.”


End file.
